


Porcelain

by gregszandles (JeffersonStarship)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Episode Tag: s7e7, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeffersonStarship/pseuds/gregszandles
Summary: A variation on the events that take place in the restroom in 7x7, "Post Mortem". Aaron James enters, and is the LAST to enter until Nick finds Greg bleeding on the floor. T rating is for violence and language.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Porcelain

The court recess from the coroner’s inquest could not have come soon enough. Greg splashes some cool water onto his face then leans both hands on the sides of the sink and glares up at his reflection. The action, instead of refreshing his appearance and his mind, only succeeds in a more frazzled and flushed complexion.

He is sweating despite the cool and climate-controlled building, and has been all day. This damn suit is not helping, either. It’s a good thing it’s a dark colored suit he’s wearing, otherwise the sweat under his arms would have become a problem much earlier. He feels in that court room that every eye is on him, accusing, adjudicating, and most of the time his suspicions are right. This is literally his day to be judged, and the goal is to _not_ have to come back here for a murder trial in a few months.

But his grave has already been excavated by the press coverage, the outspoken family of his victim, and his own actions. Because at the start of this all, whose foot pressed on that accelerator for exactly two seconds and took a life? Everyone says that blame can be a shared burden, and Greg himself has preached this while comforting his friends, but in all reality, he thinks that claim is bullshit.

He tries to take deep, calming breaths, and fights the urge to punch the mirror and shatter that image he refuses to believe is _him_ now. When the inquest resumes, it is finally his turn to retell his own side of the events of that morning. He wishes he didn’t need to; those who already spoke on the witness stand told that story for him already. All the ugly, gory, unflattering details. Doc Robbins said it best himself, and although Greg knows he was forced, it is _true_. Homicide.

It is not only negative things that have been said, no, and Greg is grateful even if it is a bit difficult to express that right now. Sofia with her matter-of-fact explanation of the scene, of Greg’s injuries, knowing it is difficult for her to relive those moments. Stanley Turner, the man that everyone says Greg saved, with his own blunt but favorable defense of Greg’s decisions that morning. Then, Nick takes the stand and he is contradicting himself but makes it crystal clear whose side he’s on.

The only other patron of the restroom leaves, and Greg hears the door swing open then closed. He takes another deep breath. It’s almost time. On his own at last, with no scrutiny besides his own, he’s allowed to mentally prepare for the hell that is to follow.

Greg knows there are those around him that will have his back no matter what. That fact alone keeps him in the building, stops him from running out now, avoiding the consequences for as long as possible. It’s his testimony next, so he is going to suck it up, take the stand like his friends before him, and tell his story how he remembers it. No flare, no embellishments. He _killed_ someone, and since he can’t change that, he’s going to own it.

A chill suddenly creeps up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He’s not alone as he initially assumed, and it doesn’t take a psychic to figure that out when the large shadow catches his eye. He checks the mirror: Aaron James. Demetrius’ brother. Greg freezes.

“How tough you feel when you’re not in your big SUV, huh?”

The kid’s shoulders are squared off, and he’s blocking the only exit. Aaron may be young and not especially tall, but he’s not petite from any angle and has a significant weight advantage on the CSI. Worse, he lost his brother, and has been simmering in focused rage and vengeful thoughts for weeks. Now, he has conveniently caught the sole cause of his anguishes cornered and unaided.

“I asked you a question, killer,” Aaron provokes, moving a few steps closer to his target.

Greg sighs silently as he removes his hands from the sink and turns. He’s accepted already that he’s about to get his ass kicked, again. The only detail he is unsure of know is _how_. Aaron should not have been able to bring a firearm into City Hall, but the confidence he exudes tells Greg that he very well may have discovered a way. Whatever the outcome Greg’s not going to fight back, and he keeps his arms passively lowered at his sides as he meets Aaron’s eyes. What has resistance earned him in the past? Besides, he did kill the kid’s brother. He is certain that any punishment he receives is payment due.

So, Greg holds his position as Aaron closes the distance between them. He hopes that his non-confrontational stance will convince the kid that he’s not worth his time, because as much as he deserves it, he doesn’t exactly feel like getting wounded or killed today.

He holds his position even when Aaron’s left fist rises and accelerates toward his face. The impact against his cheekbone knocks Greg sideways and backwards, and he finds himself gripping onto the sides of the sink once more. This time, it’s because he will literally collapse without the support. His cheek must have split open with the hit, and Greg feels the warm fluid dripping down to his chin then watches as it splatters into the basin. His face hurts like hell. The ringing in his ears, the fuzzy vision; every sensation reminds him of that alley.

Head lowered as his blood decorates the once-white porcelain sink, Greg hopes that’s all. Perhaps a good left hook is all that Aaron needed, and he feels better. He’s probably walking away now—

A wide hand grips the back of Greg’s head, and his hair is tangled in the fingers, so he would be unable to pull away even if he tried. The arm pushes his head into the mirror with enough force to shatter the glass and then shoves the CSI off to the side, and this time Greg does go down. He lands on his side, rolls slowly to his back and his vision flashes between blinding white light, black nothingness, and Aaron’s figure towering over him. He might as well be back in that alley, and when he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, he _is_ there, so he opens them to once again face Aaron.

When the kicks to his ribs start, Greg finds himself wishing that Aaron would talk; yell at him, accuse him, curse him, sing, _anything_. He needs something to focus on besides the sharp cracking in his ribcage, the inability to draw in a proper breath between hits from Aaron’s shoe. His body automatically curls into itself to protect its core even though Greg has vowed not to resist. He’s now laying on some of his injured ribs, but the only adjustment he makes is raising his forearms to cover his face. Now he waits. He waits for the hits to stop coming; for Aaron to become satisfied. He waits to die, because he doesn’t see this ending any other way.

But the hits do stop, and when they do Greg remains on the ground and cautiously relaxes one arm away from his face so he can see his attacker’s position. Aaron’s still standing over him, and he’s reaching under his dress shirt.

‘ _He has a gun_ ,’ Greg’s mind murmurs to him. ‘ _He’s going to finish you off. This is it._ ’

He doesn’t want to take his last breath on the disgusting floor of a men’s restroom, and momentarily reconsiders his stance on fighting back.

Aaron laughs when he notices Greg eyeing his hand. “What, you think I’m going to shoot you?” He gestures at his pockets. “You think I brought a gun in here? No, you see: I play fair, and a gun…or, say, an SUV? those both tip that scale.” He finally produces a piece of paper, looks at the front of it for a moment, then uses his foot to kick Greg once more in the shoulder, rolling him onto his back.

Greg groans and coughs. The paper flutters to the ground near his head.

“Once a killer, always a killer.” Aaron spits, then takes his leave.

The bright restroom begins to blur and dark around the edges. Greg can feel his ribs crunching with every breath. It’s a familiar sensation; one he did not miss.

‘ _At least I won’t have to testify today_ ,’ he thinks drearily as he fights for air and clenches his jaw through the radiating agony in his head and torso.

* * *

Nick shifts uneasily in his seat. The trial’s recess has been over for ten minutes and there is still no sign of Greg. He spots the defense attorney. She is nervously scanning the room, phone to her ear, and he knows she’s likely trying to call Greg. He also knows that she will not get an answer because Nick didn’t get one when he tried the number himself a minute ago. He is so focused on his worry for Greg that he doesn’t notice the younger CSI is not the only person missing from the courtroom.

Unable to remain seated any longer, Nick rises and makes his way to the exit as quickly as possible without causing a disturbance. Once in the massive, high-ceilinged hallway, he looks back and forth, finally spotting the restroom sign. He heads for it, hoping this is where he will find Greg, fretting and agonizing over his coming testimony. Nick will let Greg’s attorney know that her client has been located, get her to buy some time with the judge. Then, he will comfort Greg, give him the pep-talk he understandably needs after a day like today. He’ll tell him he can do this. He’ll say to be courageous and get up on that stand, get it the hell over with so that he can be proven innocent and move on with his life.

As Nick swings the restroom door open, he can already hear Greg’s possible objections in his head, and prepares himself.

But he’s most certainly not prepared for the sight that greets him.

“Greg!” he shouts, then leans out of the restroom and spots a guard at the other end of the hallway. “Call an ambulance!”

The guard is already pulling his phone from its clip on his belt when Nick dashes back into the bathroom, jumps most of the broken glass, and slides to the ground next to the motionless man. Nick’s pantlegs are already covered in blood; it’s all over the slick floor surrounding his friend. “Shit,” he mutters and cups the man’s bruising face, lifting his head and patting his cheeks desperately. “Greg, come on man, you with me?”

There’s no reply, so Nick shakily checks for a pulse. It’s there, rapid but strong, and now that Nick is really paying attention he can hear the guy breathing: raspy and shallow. But he’s still not responding, and based on the amount of blood coating him and the scene it’s impossible to see where it’s all coming from. Greg’s hair is especially soaked, and Nick figures it is a safe bet to assume he was hit in the head at least once. Nick swears again and carefully lays Greg’s head back onto the floor. He loosens the man’s tie, then returns two fingers lightly to the throbbing on Greg’s neck and produces his own cellphone from his pocket.

Later, the dried blood smeared on the device’s surface will serve as a heartbreaking reminder of this moment.

Nick speed-dials Grissom. He is very brief in his conversation, states only the facts, and his tone resembles that of a simple disinterested observer. It’s just how he’s coping, and no one will hold it against him. Nick relays the basics:

_‘Greg’s hurt bad, obvious blood loss and likely head trauma’_

_‘men’s bathroom of the courthouse’_

_‘bus should be on the way but can you make sure’_

_‘I don’t know who did it but I have my suspicions’_

Then the small rectangle of paper near Greg’s head finally catches Nick’s attention. It too is covered in blood, so did not stand out at first.

“Grissom, it was Aaron James,” Nick confidently advises his boss before disconnecting the call to check on the younger man, whose condition hasn’t changed. Ignoring the sacred rules of an unprocessed crime scene and acting of instinct alone Nick crumples the childhood picture of Demetrius and his brother.

“Wake up, G. Don’t do this,” he begs, although he isn’t even sure what ‘it’ is. His gaze is drawn to Greg’s torn jacket shoulder seam, where a partial bloody shoeprint is clearly visible on the white dress shirt underneath. The perpetrator clearly kicked him while he was already down and bleeding.

Minutes pass, or it could be seconds, even hours. Nick isn’t sure, but eventually the guard whose attention he caught earlier enters the restroom. He takes in the scene in front of him, a gruesome tapestry of white porcelain speckled with shimmering mirror shards, splotched and smeared with red.

“What the hell happened in here?” he finally demands.

“Did you call for an ambulance?” Nick ignores his inquiry and doesn’t look up from Greg. His weak breaths are becoming weaker, and Nick worries that his friend is fading away. Greg is trying to die on him.

“ETA is four minutes. Is he _dead_?”

Nick explodes. “This happened on _your_ watch, and you’re not exactly employee of the month right now. So, unless you’re going to help me with my friend, get the hell out of here!” the panicked CSI shouts over his shoulder.

The guard sighs and shakes his head but approaches and kneels carefully next to Nick. “What can I do?”

“Help me turn him onto his side. He’s unconscious, it’s a safer position.”

“So, _not_ dead then,” the guard mumbles as he assists in repositioning the bloodied man on the floor.

* * *

The pain is undoubtedly present, but he’s sure it is muffled a great deal.

Greg doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is. He’s played this game too many times. The machines beeping and whirring and the scent of strong disinfectant are strong hints. He also doesn’t need to look at any treatment sheets to know what kind of medication they are giving him. A decent amount too, from the feel of it.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Sofia’s voice gives him a slight start, even though he should know someone was bound to be watching over him. His friends and coworkers wouldn’t have it any other way. His eyes crack open, one after the other. He’s pleasantly surprised that he _can_ open them despite how stiff his beaten face feels. He turns his head somewhat, meets Sofia’s stare, then closes his eyes again and chuckles quietly. The movement is painful, but he knows it could be much worse. He’s had it _much_ worse.

Sofia furrows her brow and leans forward in her seat at his bedside. “What?”

“I couldn’t smell you over the cleaning supplies,” he intones hoarsely. Greg has a good nose, and his nose _knows_ the scent of each of his coworkers. Sofia normally smells vaguely of peaches and wild rose.

She hesitates only briefly. “Good. I think I forgot to put on deodorant this morning.”

He chuckles again. This time his ribcage aches sharply, and he grimaces, vowing not to laugh anymore.

“Where is everybody?” he questions groggily, using the collective form even though he’s mostly referring to Sara and Nick. He’s surprised they’re not here now. In the past it is always one of them sitting next to him when he first regains consciousness.

“I had to kick them out. They needed rest. And Nick wouldn’t stop trying to wake you up. He’s very worried. He even insulted Marilyn Manson several times, couldn’t believe that didn’t work.”

“What an asshole,” Greg grunts good-naturedly, then looks at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought.

Gravid silence follows. Sofia finally interrupts it and confronts the elephant in the room. “Aaron James is in jail, and he’s going to be there for a while.

“Her last son.” The whisper leaves his lips before he can stop it.

Sofia scoots to the edge of her seat and tries to catch his eyes. “Greg, I meant what I told you earlier. We all face decisions like this on the job, and nobody but us knows what it’s like to be in our shoes. You made the choice that was right to you, and that’s all that matters because you’re a _good_ person. Without your interference, Stanley Turner would be dead—just like he said. And Aaron? Aaron is where he belongs. He was a ticking timebomb.”

Greg nods, not really believing but truly appreciating her attempt at cheering him up.

“Do you want to talk about any of this?” Sofia prompts after further silence.

“Not really,” Greg responds. His eyelids are rapidly growing heavier.

“You will have to eventually.”

“I know. Just…not yet.” He shifts and winces as he tries to find the most comfortable position.

Sofia sits with Greg while he falls asleep. She sits with him until Sara arrives to relieve her. Before leaving, she squeezes his hand gently, whispers in his ear.

“You’re going to be alright.”

She knows it’s true, but _he_ might need some convincing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm calling this a warm-up exercise so that maybe I can focus on Just Getting Started. We'll see how that goes ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Please review!


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